


Superiority Complex

by Jackpop



Category: Pentagon (Korean Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Death And Such, Drug Use, Edawn's a fucking drug lord, Gun Violence, I don't fucking know man, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex, Swearing, Torture, Violence, background relationships will be specified, define graphic?, did I mention there's swearing, not yet, oh yeah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-28 12:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10831725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackpop/pseuds/Jackpop
Summary: In a dog-eat-dog world -- where the sluts and scum live like Kings, and the weak and desperate taste their bullets -- Hwitaek gets tangled in the shitty business of a cold-hearted drug lord.(Hiatus due to lack of motivation.)





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is the result of an insomnia induced insobriety.
> 
> I don't know, man. Just. Yeah, okay.

Smoke coils in ugly tails towards the ceiling, dampening that pungent metallic smell with the stench of fresh ash. Hyojong isn’t a fan of smoking. But it distracts him, at least for a while.

His bleached blonde hair clings to his forehead, dampened by the blood already beginning to crust over his temple. He tells himself he needs to get up. Do something. Anything but sit in this fucking hell of a work space.

Instead, he lets his head hang, slipping a few more bullets into the magazine of his gun. It’s a shitty little trinket-of-a-weapon, but it gets the job done. Hyunggu keeps nagging him to upgrade to something a little more heavy-duty. If Hyojong actually gave a shit, he might have listened.

He turns to the corpse sitting limply in the chair just opposite his desk. A pathetic looking creature. Half of its face missing. Jaw hanging agape. Crimson tinting its dull, lifeless skin. Hyojong snickers. It turns into a laugh. He rests his elbows against his desk and flicks his cigarette in the ugly man’s direction. It hits his chest and rolls down his bloated stomach. He laughs again.

Changgu is standing by the door. Hyojong doesn’t know how long he’s been there. He doesn’t care either. He leans back in his desk chair and fiddles with the hammer of his gun, clicking it back and forth. Back and forth. _Click. Click. Click._

“You know those fifty fifty crates of ice we got?” Changgu says calmly. Hyojong smirks. The slut’s always been a killer actor. But he can tell by the way Changgu’s got his back tight against the wall that he’s nervous. Everyone’s always nervous. _Click. Click. Click._

“What about it?”

“There’s a guy…” Changgu swallows, taking his time. “A nobody, really. Some dude who got into the supply unit.”

Hyojong scratches the side of his head with the tip of his handgun. “And that just happened by itself, did it?” Hyojong smiles. He likes the way Changgu tries to keep a straight face. It’s amusing.

“He broke in through the back. We caught him before he could escape.”

The blond smirks. Something about that was vaguely funny to him. He lets his smile drop though. His cheeks were getting tired.

Hyojong points his gun at Changgu’s pretty little face with a half-assed sigh. He’s almost surprised when the other doesn’t flinch. Perhaps he’s threatened to kill him one too many times. Shame.

“You shot him yet?” Changgu shakes his head. “Why the fuck not?”

“That’s a right reserved for you, isn’t it?”

Hyojong chuckles, bringing the barrel of his gun up to his own lip and tapping gently. He likes the taste. The smell. “Goddamn right it is.”

  
  


When he wakes, he wakes to muted darkness. Hwitaek is almost certain he’s died and gone to hell. His arms and legs feel light. His head is filled with air. As his vision clears, he sees speckles of light bleed through the bag over his head. He feels the plastic zip ties biting into his wrists behind his back. His ankles are bound and his mouth is taped.

He hears low mumblings not far from him, and suddenly the bag is removed. He blinks rapidly, coughing at the vague stench of something foul. He’s on the floor with his shoulder pressed to the ground. The sparsely furnished room is cold and cloaked with death.

“The guy’s finally awake, huh?”

A hollow chuckle rumbles from the far corner of the room. “Yeah, wait ‘til Dawn gets his hands on him.”

“We wouldn’t have to deal with this shit if you’d just locked the fucking gate properly.”

Hwitaek spots the two men standing by the doorway, fiddling with a set of unfriendly-looking guns. He can see the blood on their shirts, the scars on their arms. His stomach churns. He knows he’ll die here. He wonders if he can bare the pain of suicide. Bite down on his own tongue. Is it any worse than facing whatever _they_ have in store for him?

Then it happens.

A gunshot. Hwitaek thinks it’s his imagination, until he feels something wet against his brow. Sees crimson paint the floorboards. A thud soon follows, and he sees one of the guard’s lying still upon the ground. Robbed. Lifeless.

Hwitaek wants to scream but has no voice. His throat hurts.

He thinks he might faint. Every second renders him more nauseous. The other guard says nothing, just stands there as the man that’d shot his friend walks through into the room. Slow, lonely footsteps.

He’s whistling.

It sounds like some child’s lullaby. The kind Hwitaek’s mother used to sing.

The song ends with a long, empty sigh. “Fucker. Can’t even lock a god damn door. He’s Hell’s problem now.”

“Hyojong,” the other man says, voice lower than before. “This is the guy.”

Hwitaek finally wills himself to look up at the murderer. Death is a man with blood on his skin. Blood in his hair. He carries a lousey pistol. “I know,” he says. He walks a few feet, and grabs Hwitaek by the roots of his hair.

“I know a thief when I see one.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, my inconsistency is great. :)

Hwitaek remembers the days when he used to work in an office chair like the one he’s sitting on. Granted, he never had his hands tied behind his back. Or a dozen nails driven under his skin. But the chair felt exactly the same. Uncomfortable. Unsettlingly stiff.

 The pain turns into an itch. A crawling of the skin. A thousand needles spawning just beneath his flesh. He hears the crunch before he feels it, be it his fingers breaking, or muscle tearing. Hwitaek can tell Hyojong enjoys decorating his body with cuts, digging the nose of his blade into his skin until he hits a bone. He must like watching ugly bruises blossom on his neck. His hands. His legs. Hwitaek’s screams are almost always serenaded by Hyojong’s dull, lifeless laugh.

 The searing pain lingers against Hwitaek’s body, tingles even. The shards of glass in his throat rake up his mouth. Blood floods his lungs and he feels himself begin to choke. He would have spluttered to death, had Hyojong not punched him in the stomach.

  _Crack._

 A bone breaks. His rib. Hwitaek screams. Everything turns a searing white. 

 He would have passed out if not for Hyojong’s persistence. Every time he felt his eyelids grow heavy, he’d be met with a harsh yank to the scalp or a slap to the cheek. Any salvation in slumber he so desperately longed for was tugged away from him.

 It’s not too long before he starts to grow tired of breathing. As the hours bleed on, he finds himself begging for death. Praying for that nonexistent God to save him.

 “You’re so weak,” Hyojong says. His words are disturbingly calm. His hands are gloved in a blanket of crimson. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he doesn’t care. “I expected more from a thief like you. Kind of pathetic, don’t you think?”

 Hwitaek doesn’t say a thing. 

 “You have any fucking idea what you got yourself into?” Hyojong wipes the blood from the edge of his knife against the collar of the other’s shirt. He does all with an empty smile pulling on his lip. “Getting kind of tired of you sick ass junkies, living off my earnings. My boys worked hard for those drugs, you lil’ shit.”

 Hyojong spits in Hwitaek’s face. The bruised and battered prisoner is too uneased to react. He simply hangs his head, staring down at his knees. His jeans have turned a dark rose.

 He doesn’t realise Hyojong has a gun pointed to his head. He can barely feel the icy lips of the gun barrel pressed against his temple. It’s been muted by the itch. The ache in every muscle.

 “You wanna’ go to sleep now, you lil’ fucker?” Hyojong whispers into his victim’s ear. Hwitaek can smell the tobacco on his breath. “See you in hell.”

 Hyojong’s finger twitches over the trigger, before he hears Hwitaek murmur weakly under his breath.

 He hesitates. “What?”

 “I s-said…” Hwitaek’s words are rasped, shadowed in death. He speaks anyway, “...I’m n-not...a f-fuck--ing junkie.”

 Hyojong stares at him with eyes of marble, body stiff. Hwitaek waits to taste the bullet. Waits for his skull to be blown open. He waits. And waits. And waits.

 Instead, he hears Hyojong begin to snicker. “...Liar.”

 “I’m-m n-not--”

 The gun goes off. A sharp bang sirens through his skull. Hwitaek hears shrieking in his ear. The window to his left shatters. When Hyojong speaks again, his voice is muffled by the buzz. The ringing in his deaf-drawn ear.

 “Don’t fucking lie to me! You little shit!” Hyojong grabs him by the hair, tugging harshly. “Only a desperate fuck-faced junkie’d be dumb and desperate enough to steal from me.”

 Hwitaek mumbles again and Hyojong feels his temper begin to seethe. He turns his gun around and hits Hwitaek across the cheek with the end of his pistol, leaving an angry red gash. 

 “Fucking-- talk properly you son of a bitch!”

 “Med-dicine…” Hwitaek no longer has the energy to keep his eyes open. He lets his chest heave. “I st-tudy...medicine.”

 Hyojong feels a twitch. A medic...

 A prickle springs to the back of his head. His neck twitches and his brain begins to throb against his skull. He chuckles. Then laughs. Then screams with a painful smile, hitting the side of his head with the palm of his hand until his vision began to blur. He almost trips over his own ankles as he stumbles back towards the wall. 

 He looks down at Hwitaek, eyes glossing over the blood oozing from his skin. Hyojong goes quiet, letting his victim pass out from bloodloss. Slowly. Surely.

 

 

Hwitaek is surprised to find himself still alive the next time he wakes. He isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. A dull, monotonous pain rakes through his body. Even as he tries to heave air into his lungs, his chest seems to tighten with every breath. 

 “Try not to move,” a voice says. It’s not Hyojong. This one is softer. Smoother. Less insane. “The boss really fucked you up, you don’t want to hurt yourself even more.”

 Hwitaek’s vision begins to focus. He’s in a different room. It’s cleaner. The air tastes fresher, no longer tainted with the bitter stench of blood. He’s lying on a small bed with his shirt open. The majority of his chest is concealed under thick layers of bandages. A young man with tousled brown hair is knelt by his side. His rose-tinted fingertips are holding a needle and cloth. Hwitaek looks down at the wounds on his arms and notices they’ve been stitched up. 

 “You’re an idiot for coming here, you know,” the stranger says. His tone isn’t as harsh as his words. “You’re lucky you aren’t dead yet.”

 Hwitaek winces as his mind begins to clear. His head feels heavy. This has got to be the worst weekend of his entire life. “ _Why_ aren’t I dead yet?”

 “Hyojong doesn’t kill _useful_ people.” The stranger shakes his head. “Don’t ask me what that means because I don’t really know. Maybe he thinks he can use you. Maybe he just wants to fuck you over. Either way, he’s letting you live, for now, so thank your fucking stars.” 

 Hwitaek lets his head fall back against the bed. Despite the ache simmering under his skin, he doesn’t feel any weaker than he was before. His main concern was those drugs. He needed them. He has to have them.

 Hwitaek turns to the stranger. “What’s your name?”

 He looks up with a raised brow. “...Excuse me?”

 Hwitaek almost chuckles. “Your name?”

 “Why d’you care?” 

 “Well, you did kinda’ just stop me from bleeding to death.” He shrugs. “I wanna’ know who to thank.”

 The stranger looks down before swallowing the lump in his throat. “Jinho.”

 “I’m Hwitaek,” he says back. “Thank you for helping me.”

 “Don’t thank me,” Jinho says, standing from the floor and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “My friends and I are having a bet to see how long you’ll last. Hongseok recons a day or two. I said three, maybe four, if Hyojong’s in a good mood.”

 Hwitaek tenses. If only god had killed him when he asked for it.

 “Come on, I gotta’ take you somewhere.” Jinho pulls a set of crutches up off the wall.

 Hwitaek knits his brow together in confusion. “Where we going?”

 “Work.”


End file.
